King's Landing, 221 AC
The bells of King's Landing tolled in deep, measured rhythm—neither joyous nor mournful, but somber, like the forge-hammers of some divine blacksmith shaping a new age.
In the Great Sept of Baelor, under a sky of stained glass and the many eyes of the gods, the court gathered in silence to witness the crowning of another Targaryen monarch in a generation: Maekar Targaryen, fourth son of Daeron the Good, brother to Baelor Breakspear and Aerys the Bookish, father to the princeling warriors who had fought against the Blackfyres on the field of battle.
Maekar stood tall before the High Septon, clad in black and crimson plate polished to a gleam, unmarred by ornament save for the three-headed dragon sigil at his chest. His expression, as always, was grim and hard as stone.
Gone was the ancient crown of Aegon the Unworthy, red gold and obscene with gemstones. Gone too was the lighter circlet worn by Daeron II and King Aerys I, regal but refined.
The new crown was unlike its predecessors.
It was a warlike band of hammered red gold, heavy with the weight of iron intent. Sharp black iron points jutted upward like spears or dragon's teeth, unadorned by jewels, unapologetically brutal. It was the crown of a warrior king.
As the High Septon placed the crown upon his brow, Maekar neither bowed nor smiled. His shoulders bore the burden of kingship as he turned to face the gathered lords and knights, his voice loud and clear beneath the vaulted dome.
"My brother Aerys, rest his soul, gave this realm peace in parchment and ink. My father Daeron and my brother Baelor won honor and unity through reason and might.I will do both… or die in the doing."
From behind the King stood the royal family. Prince Aerion, his pale eyes cruel and calculating. Prince Aegon, ever humble in his armor, Ser Duncan the Tall beside him. Queen Dyanna, stern and silent, her features half-shadowed beneath her veil.
And at Maekar's side, standing as stone beside the Iron Throne, was Lord Brynden Rivers—his cloak dark as a raven's wing, his eyes mismatched beneath the hood. He alone wore black in mourning for King Aerys. Yet he alone seemed unmoved by the shift in reigns. His service had continued under four kings now. One day, he had said, it would end in blood.
The court watched in silence as King Maekar mounted the Iron Throne. The sword-forged seat groaned as he sat, the jagged steel barely less sharp than the crown he bore.
A moment passed. Then the King spoke again:
"My reign begins in fire's shadow. Let all remember the legacy of Daeron the Good, the wisdom of King Aerys, the sacrifice of Baelor Breakspear.Let the name Maekar be counted among theirs—not for peace alone, but for the sword that defends it."
"There are still those across the Narrow Sea who call themselves kings. Pretenders, who steal the name Blackfyre and wear it like a mask.I vow, before gods and men, that they will never set foot in Westeros unchallenged again."
The chamber broke into murmurs. Some applauded. Others exchanged glances of unease.
But Brynden Rivers said nothing. He simply looked, and listened, and remembered the ghosts of the court who once stood where these now stood.
He had kept the realm from falling into chaos more times than any would ever know. And now, beneath the reign of a king forged for war, he would do so again.